I'm in Love With a Duke
by Vividpast
Summary: SLASH. Moulin Rouge AU. Merlin is an aspiring writer in Paris. Morgana is a courtesan dreaming of stardom. Arthur? Arthur just wants everyone to stop thinking he wants to sleep with his own sister. And maybe for that damn writer to stop being so dense. Full summary inside.
1. The Penniless Writer's Dreams

**WARNING/S:** Some foul language because, apparently, swearing existed even back in 1900's

**A/N: **Ugh, it's been so long since I've uploaded something and I just wanted to upload something! That said, this story probably won't be continued after a few chapters. My mind keeps jumping from muse after muse before I even finish anything.

I've been hearing the songs of Moulin Rouge in my head for the past week. This story spawned from that "This story doesn't make any sense. Why would the courtesan go for the penniless writer. Oops, I mean sitar player" scene. What if the Duke was not because he was vying for the courtesan's attentions but for the penniless writers'? My mind just went crazy with that.

Also, the dialogue borrows heavily from the movie because it has a pretty awesome dialogue. If you haven't watched the movie, it's fine. You'll still be able to understand it, I guess.

**Full Summary: **SLASH. Moulin Rouge AU. Merlin is an aspiring writer in Paris. Morgana is a courtesan dreaming of stardom. Arthur? Arthur just wants everyone to stop thinking he wants to sleep with his own sister. And maybe for that damn writer to stop being so dense. Join the writer, the courtesan, and the duke in their journey full of unnecessary misunderstandings, Victorian manners, and perhaps no little amount of romance.

**Chapter Summary/Excerpt: **Merlin arrives in Paris in search for the Bohemian spirit and finds new friends along the way.

**Disclaimer: **Characters belong to BBC Merlin. The plot and dialogue are from Moulin Rouge (2001). The only things here that are truly mine the creative liberties I've taken. Made for fun, not for profit.

Enjoy~

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**Chapter One: The Penniless Writer's Dreams**

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When Merlin Emrys finally arrived in Paris after a long-suffering journey from England, he nearly jumped from the excitement coursing through his veins. The feeling was not unlike the joy he felt when he received his first typewriter.

He grabbed his suitcase—nearly dropping it because of his sweaty palms—and eagerly stepped out of the train, feeling breathless. He looked around with awe, taking in the busy buzzing of the crowds, the gleaming structures sharply reflecting the morning sunlight, and the various colorful posters stuck to the walls. He listened to the various chatters of people around, the soft music being played by a band in a corner, and the sound of the train engines. Merlin was drowning in the sights and sensations.

He breathed in his first gulp of air in Paris and promptly coughed. He fished his handkerchief and covered his mouth, probably hacking out a lung.

It probably wasn't a good idea to breath in the coal-smoke the train was pumping out.

He tightened his grip on the suitcase—no need to temp the wandering hands of Parisian thieves—and hurriedly got out of the station, breathing through his handkerchief.

There were so many things to see!

For hours, he wandered through the streets of Paris, stormy blue eyes taking it all—the beautiful architecture of the houses, the archways adorning the barriers between places, the colorful gowns and face-paint of women, the self-important suits and canes of men, and the laughter of running children.

Of course, each city had its merits and . . . dark side, as Merlin called it in his head. It wasn't long before Merlin got to the seedy part of the town—crumbling and ramshackle homes, homeless men dress in garbs and ruffling through the trash scattered about, women smoking and offering their . . . services, and children starving and begging for alms. More than once, Merlin had to slap off hands that had wandered in his pockets or hauled his suitcase.

The change between two locations in Paris was so startling, it made Merlin quite dizzy. For Merlin, both parts together are the charm of every city.

It was the year 1899 and the world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution; Merlin had travelled from London to be part of it. After all, where better to find an inspiration for a writer like him than at a place where the ideas of freedom, beauty, truth and above all things, love run rampant?

Merlin grinned as he stared up at the archway saying _Montmartre_. This hill near Paris was supposedly the center of the Bohemian world. Musicians, painters, writers and other artists made a name for themselves in this place; they were known as "the children of the revolution". Sooner or later, Merlin was going to be one of them—well, hopefully anyways. Optimism was always his fallback.

Quickly, he started looking for a cheap inn because he was just a poor boy from a poor family; he couldn't afford all those gaudy hotels with their outrageous prices. He also didn't want to be out in the streets after the sun sets either so he had better hurry. A few hours later, with almost the last of his money, he (semi-)gladly checked in a dubious motel. He sighed in relief as he locked the door to his room.

The furniture in the room was sparse, with only a simple wooden cabinet, a dusty desk and a musty queen-sized bed. He gingerly placed his suitcase on the desk, hoping his typewriter wasn't jarred too much in his journey. The ink on the secondhand device was easily displaced after all.

He checked the bathroom, almost afraid of what he might see. There was an acrid smell permeating from the walls themselves but, thankfully, it was a lot more decent and hygienic than Merlin expected. He quickly changed into a more comfortable clothing—a soft cotton long-sleeved tunic and loose trousers. The cheap material of the suit he was wearing was making his skin crawl and itch.

He threw himself down on the bed's squeaky mattress. It had been a very long excursion. He immediately regretted the action when dust particles flew out in the air, creating somewhat of a fog. To add to that, Merlin would bet that the mattress was actually made of rocks—which, _ouch_.

Merlin instantly stood up, coughing out the dust he inhaled while rubbing and rolling his probably bruised shoulders. He dusted off his clothes, clicking his tongue at the thick layer of grime that clung to them.

"Well," he said, looking around the room once more, deciding to do something about it. "Better get to work." Writing can wait. For now, he needed to transform this room into something a bit more habitable.

Being a writer, especially an amateur one like him, was not only a difficult but also a frightening career path to take. Merlin had always wanted to be a writer—the idea of weaving words for readers to interpret, of creating worlds through merely statements, of possibly inspiring others like he had been by the brilliant books he had read. However, he came from an almost penniless existence—still was in a penniless existence. He couldn't just be whimsical about earning money; he had a family to support! Luckily, he had an extremely supportive mother that blown most of his doubts away.

"Always this ridiculous obsession with love," he remembered his mother teasing him when he told her for the thousandth time what he wanted to write about. She had arranged his collar like the fussy mother she was before he boarded the train. "We may not have much," she had said. "But I don't want you to be unhappy. If this is what you truly want, you have my blessing." And a good chunk of her savings, Merlin would later find out when he checked his pockets for the ticket. If it wasn't for the train starting off at that moment, Merlin would have ran back and given the money back to her, that silly mother of his.

Merlin would not be ashamed to admit that some tears were shed and most of them were not his mother's. He truly was fortunate to have her. He had promised her, upon leaving, that he would make her the proudest mother of the century.

He promised would write something magical that would be worldwide sensation.

Well, Merlin liked to dream big. Dreaming big never hurts, as his mother said.

Merlin aggressively scrubbed the crumbling floor with a rag. The cloth caught on a raised nail _again_, tearing it a few inches. Honestly, if Merlin ever fell out of bed, he would be impaled by the hundreds of crooked nails not properly hammered down. He carefully lifted the rag so as not to damage it no more than necessary and continued on the herculean task of getting the floor to at least resemble something brown.

There was only one problem about writing something as magical as love.

He had never been in love. How could he write about love if he had never experienced it?

Merlin's eyes widened comically in realization. He paused, horror slowly overtaking him. Everything he would write about love would sound wooden, artificial and definitely insincere! Merlin hated those kinds of books; he always felt so cynical after reading one.

"What am I going to do?" he said to himself, panicking and maybe flailing a bit.

Wait.

It was easy. He was just going to have to find love here in Paris! After all, there were a motley of people just wandering about. He was bound to meet someone that would make his heart throb wonderfully and create butterflies in his stomach—like what those romance novels described (not that he read many of those. Much).

He would just need to explore the city and introduce himself to people. It's not like love is suddenly going to fall through the sky and hit him while he was inside this dingy motel.

As if on cue, the ceiling above gave way with a resounding groan. Wooden debris and soot spewed forth on the newly cleaned floor. Merlin yelped in alarm, quickly backing away from the object that had fallen through.

Oh God. It was a man hanging upside down. Merlin could do nothing but stare in incomparable horror. Good lord, was he dead?

"Fucking bitch," the man cursed, British accent thick in his tone.

Apparently not.

The man had a rope tied around his left leg, the only thing saving him from face-planting on the floor. His dirty-blonde hair was swinging only a few short inches above the floor. A grimace crossed his features before he forced it into irritation.

After a few moments of shocked silence, Merlin's brain finally remembered that gaping was not the only thing he could do.

"Good heavens, are you alright?" He hovered, not knowing what to do. After all, it wasn't an every day occurrence that he had men falling through his ceiling. Perhaps this was a Parisian normality?

"What do you think?" the man spat out, trying and failing to reach the rope wrapped around his leg.

Because Merlin himself had no manners, he couldn't help but retort, "I don't know, you appear quite comfortable."

The glare the man sent Merlin's way would have scared a lesser man. As it was, the writer merely raised an unimpressed brow.

Suddenly, Merlin's (locked) door burst open to reveal a dark-skinned woman dressed as a nun. Merlin almost jumped out of his skin at her entrance.

"Tristan!" the woman cried out, running towards the man. The man—named Tristan, apparently—gave the woman a glare that could melt stones for its heat. "Are you alright?"

"Like I said to this bloke—what do you think?" he seethed, gritting his teeth.

Merlin's brain finally came up with a brilliant and productive idea. "We're going to get you down," Merlin assured, hesitantly grappling with the man's broad shoulders to at least lessen the weight on his left leg. Just thinking about the strain on the man's leg made him wince.

"About fucking time." The man muttered.

"Why, you're welcome. No need to express your undying gratitude or anything."

Tristan's growl told Merlin that his sarcasm was not appreciated.

Together, through the grace of some god out there, Merlin and the woman had managed to place Tristan back on solid ground after a few minutes. Although, Merlin had needed to support the man when his left leg buckled under his weight. Tristan didn't cry out—his pride probably too bruised already—but it was a near thing.

"Oh, Tristan." The woman fussed, dusting out the clothes he was wearing—which, to Merlin's endless bafflement, looked to be the clothes of a shepherd. The woman then turned to Merlin. "I'm terribly sorry about all this. We were just rehearsing a play and this God-forsaken motel have these ridiculously fragile floors and I don't get why anyone would like to check in here—not that I'm insulting your taste for that matter. It's just—"

"It's fine." Merlin cut off her babble. He also had the tendency to put his foot in his mouth. He knew firsthand how embarrassing it was when no one stopped him from blurting out excuses. Besides, the woman was getting worked up over nothing. What's a little excitement in a writer's life?

The woman blushed and said, "Thank you. We'll pay for the damages, not to worry."

Merlin wanted to assure her that any payment were unnecessary but he really had nothing to pay with when the landlord come asking for damage fees. So, instead, he just gave her a grateful smile.

"Let's sit you down," Merlin had one hand across Tristan's back and the other on the man's left arm so he settled for gesturing at the bed with his head. The man grunted in response and Merlin took that as a resounding 'yes'.

"How is he?" a high-pitched voice called out from the ceiling.

Merlin glanced up and saw three heads poking through the hole of his ceiling. The one who spoke was a pretty lithe girl with flaxen curly locks. One head was a brunette boy with buck teeth,. The last head belonged to another boy, dark hair cropped short and freckles adorning his cheeks.

"Splendid." Tristan gritted out, breaking Merlin out of his observations. He attempted to trudge on his own and Merlin hurriedly helped him before the man trips and breaks his neck. It was a real fear for Merlin himself since he never outgrew his clumsy ways. Tristan grunted again in reply and Merlin interpreted it as a 'why, thank you'.

"He hurt his leg." The dark-skinned nun replied, fingers twisting the material of her habit. "I don't think he can walk on his own." She added mournfully with an anxious glance at the hobbling pair.

Tristan heavily sat down on the now clean bed, releasing a tired sigh.

"Should I call someone?" Merlin asked, pursing his lips. He didn't think the leg was broken but he was no physician.

"No need." Tristan said with a flippant wave, tone close to civil for the first time. "It's just a sprain."

"Wonderful!" the blonde's falsetto voice piped up again, sarcasm dripping in her tone. "Now that Tristan's injured, the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow."

"Vivian's right!" the buck-teeth boy said. "I still have to finish the music," he added, chewing his lower lip with worry.

"Of course I'm right, Daegal," the blonde replied haughtily.

"Just find someone to read the part," Tristan drawled, laying down on Merlin's bed with a _fump_. He put his hands behind his head and got comfortable.

"By all means, feel right at home." Merlin muttered but with no real heat. The man was injured after all. "Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

The man waved again, like he was swatting a fly. "I've been awake for two days, listening to you lot's incessant squabbling. I'm fucking exhausted. I'm going to rest here, giving no shit about what you do." With that, as if a switch had been flipped, Tristan immediately fell asleep, snoring for all the world to hear.

Merlin blinked in bewilderment.

"I knew that bull wasn't suited for the role." The blonde, Vivian, seethed maliciously while glaring at the sleeping figure on Merlin's bed. Then, she turned to the dark-skinned woman, glare still in place as if it was all the woman's fault somehow. "Where in heaven's name are we going to find someone to read the role of a young sensitive Swiss poet/goat herder?"

Merlin took a good a look around the room, noting the thick dusting on the previously spotless (well, as spotless as it could be) floor and the splintered wood scattered about. He sighed in exasperation; he was going to have to scrub the floors again. It wasn't until a few seconds had passed that he noticed that it was suddenly too silent.

He gazed up, realizing that everyone (awake) was looking at him.

"Hm?" he tilted his head in inquiry. Did he have something on his face? He self-consciously wiped his cheek.

The dark-skinned nun took both of his hands into hers. Merlin's eyes widened at the gesture. "Would you stand in for Tristan?" she pleaded, chocolate brown eyes wide. "I-It's just for a moment. We really need to rehearse this now. A-And you just have to read from the script!"

"Um . . ." Merlin stammered out, uncertain. "I don't . . ."

Before Merlin knew it, he was on the room upstairs, standing on a high stepladder. He was dressed in an attire similar to what Tristan wore and a paper goat hang from one of his hands. Other than danger of poking his eyes out with the snow-capped mountains made of cardboard, he was in a pretty safe position considering. Animal props and other assortments was dangerously scattered about the room. The other furniture, such as the bed and the cabinets, were pushed in one corner to make way for the stage. Merlin didn't know how he went through that mess without accidentally maiming himself, clumsy as he was.

Merlin also didn't know how Gwen, the dark-skinned nun, managed to convince him to help them. He didn't usually agree to anything a practical stranger asked him to do. (Her mother would beg to differ, actually. Merlin would argue that it was one time. And the poor man really looked like he needed the help!). He probably agreed because this was the most exciting event that ever occurred in his life and he didn't want to let it got just yet.

Well, the rehearsal was . . . interesting to the least.

"_δ ~ The hills animate ~ δ ~ with euphonious symphonies of descant ~ δ_" Gwen sang with a magnificent soprano voice, twirling around in her nun disguise.

_Something's off about the rhythm though_, Merlin thought while looking at the script in his hand. The beat was awfully matched with the lyrics. Surely, they can see—or rather—hear that?

Merlin felt a sudden tickling in his throat. He couldn't stop the wet cough that burst from his chest so he just covered his mouth instead. It must be the Parisian air; he wasn't used to the foreign scents he was inhaling. It didn't help that the air was heavily polluted by the nearby factories.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Vivian, the blonde scriptwriter, shrieked. Everyone winced at the shrill tone of her voice. She rudely pointed at Daegal, the buck-teeth pianist, with an outraged expression. "Stop that insufferable droning! It's drowning out my words," she exclaimed. Then, in a false-sweet voice, she uttered, "Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?"

"This is supposed to be a musical!" Gilli, the boy with freckles and the props-maker of the show, argued, sounding irritated. "How can it be musical without the piano?" Daegal nodded vigorously in agreement.

"I didn't say that we remove the piano altogether!" Vivian replied, gesturing wildly.

A little arguing occurred, insults thrown and given. There seemed to be artistic differences over Vivian's lyrics and Daegal's songs. Merlin observed it all with wide uncertain eyes. Should he attempt to break them up?

"Besides, I don't think a nun would say that about a hill," Gilli was saying, contemplative.

"What if she sings, 'The hills are vital, intoning the descant'?" Daegal suggested with a boyish smile.

As if on cue, the other members spawned ideas after ideas about the lyrics. Some were absurdly ridiculous that Merlin couldn't hide a laugh. Vivian appeared increasingly red with anger at every suggestion.

"No, no, no, the hills quake and shake—" Gwen started but was cut off by Gilli.

"No, no, the hills—"

"The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies," a voice piped up from the door.

Heads whipped in the direction of the voice. Tristan, standing at the doorframe, raised an elegant brow. He started limping towards the bed on the corner with all the gait of fallen soldier in battle. Merlin didn't know how he was exerting that kind of unapproachable aura.

"Are you feeling better?" Merlin was forced to ask because everyone else was just staring.

Tristan looked as if he was thinking upon the answer. He sat down on the hard mattress before answering, "Ah . . . no." With that, he promptly fell asleep again.

There was a momentary pause.

Then, the arguments started again, louder than before. Merlin felt sorry for the poor saps who had the rooms nearby.

"No, the hills—"

"The hills are pranked—"

Merlin was struck by an inspiration. From experience, he knew to instantly voice it out into the physical world before it disappeared into the void that was his mind. He tried to get a word out but couldn't speak up amongst the chaos of voices. "The hills are—"

"—are chanting the eternal mantra—"

"Frank is living in my foot."

Merlin's brows rose at the non-sequitur. Well, that Gilli fellow was an odd one. Once more, he attempted to throw out his suggestion. He thought it was a pretty good change. If it wasn't, well, at least he would know. He waved his hands to get their attention. Alas, they continued their squabbling below. How did they get anything done if they can't even hear out each other's opinions?

Oh well. Perhaps he should try it for himself first. He tried to recall the melody of the piano before. If he was remembering correctly, then . . .

"_δ ~ The hills are alive ~ δ ~ with the sound of music ~ δ_" he sang, voice suddenly overpowering all other noises.

He blinked a few times. Whoa, that came out better than he expected. It sounded about right too.

"Merlin . . ." he met Gwen's gaze with surprise. He had thought they hadn't heard him. "That's beautiful!" she praised with a wide smile.

He ducked his head, blushing to the tips of his ears. "Thank you," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. No one's ever applauded his work or words before. (except his mother and that doesn't count because mothers were obligated to cater to children's insecurities)

Daegal tested it, singing "_δ ~ The hills are alive ~ δ ~ with the sound of music ~ δ_" while playing the keys in his piano. "It fits perfectly," he exclaimed with delight, turning to Merlin.

Glancing to the script and deciding it couldn't hurt, Merlin attempted to transform the next line into something more appropriate than 'With melodies sang for centuries'.

"_δ ~ With songs they have sung ~ δ ~ for a thousand years ~ δ_" he sang with same tune, unable to fight off the big grin on his face. He must look like a right fool but found that he cared not. Plucking words out of thin air and weaving them into something harmonious was an invigorating experience. He had never tried it before until today; it looked to be a good exercise that he would practice later on.

Gilli, Daegal, and Gwen gasped with what appeared to be amazement. Also, that little bit of attention didn't hurt Merlin's pride.

"Magnificent," Gilli breathed out.

"Vivian," Gwen turned to the blonde with a beatific smile. "you two should write the show together."

The others nodded as if it was the most wonderful idea ever suggested. Judging by the thunderous expression on Vivian's face, she didn't share the sentiment.

"I beg your pardon?" she squeaked, indignant.

Merlin swallowed audibly, smile dropping from his face. Vivian didn't sound at all excited at the prospect.

Apparently, Gwen's suggestion that Vivian and he write the show together was not what Vivian wanted to hear. After a few minutes of cussing and packing, Gwen trying and failing to calm her down, Vivian snootily strode out the door.

"Goodbye, you bastards!" Vivian spat out before loudly slamming the door shut in her exit.

Everyone flinched at the sound.

"Well . . ." Gwen started, looking up at Merlin. "How about it? Your first job in Paris?" She asked, nervous and hopeful all the same.

Merlin perked up, unable to believe his luck. Let it not be said that he wasted opportunities when they come to him. He gracelessly stepped off the ladder, a smile slowly climbing on his face. He opened his mouth to reply when another voice beat him to it.

"Gwen, Agravaine will never agree to this," Daegal hissed. Then, he turned to Merlin with a suspicious look. "No offense but have you ever written anything like this before?"

"Um . . . not exactly." Merlin replied with a wince, scratching his cheek. Right. Of course, he couldn't be that lucky to have landed a job less than a day of his arrival in Paris.

Both Daegal and Gilli blew out a sigh of frustration. Gwen merely looked contemplative of his answer.

"So?" Tristan drawled out from behind Gilli. Everyone jumped at his voice. Good lord, that man should wear a bell around his neck. And how long had he been awake? "That just means the boy has talent." He gave Merlin a scrutinizing once-over that made Merlin a little self-conscious. Instead of showing it though, Merlin just stood straighter and stared right back.

After a moment, Gwen turned to the rest. There was a determined expression on her face. "'The hills are alive with the sound of music.' See, with Merlin, we can write the truly Bohemian revolutionary show that we've always dreamed of." Their eyes (even Tristan's!) visibly lit up at Gwen's words, apparently half-convinced.

Clearly, Gwen was the one running the show here.

"But how would we convince Agravaine? He'll tolerate to a Bohemian play but you know he'll never allow amateurs to work on it," Gilli probed, running a hand through his hair.

"Morgana." Gwen answered, smiling at her companions.

"Who's Morgana?" Merlin inquired, getting in the discussion. He didn't want them to talk like he wasn't even in the room.

"Who's Morgana?" Daegal repeated incredulously at Merlin's question. "Morgana LeFay is the most gorgeous courtesan of the Moulin Rouge."

"Moulin Rouge?" Merlin tilted his head at the name. It sounded familiar.

Gwen beckoned everyone closer with a wave of a hand. "Okay, here's the plan," she started. "We'll dress Merlin up in Tristan's best suit—he's about your size, right?" Tristan shrugged in reply but Gwen took it as confirmation. "We'll set up a private meeting with Morgana. You," Merlin startled as all attention shifted to him. "will read her some of your works—poetry, some plot of a play or anything you have. Now, Morgana's not easily impressed, per say, but she is much easier to convince than Agravaine."

"And Agravaine caters to every whim of hers," Gilli interjected. "If you manage to enthrall her with your words, she will convince Agravaine to sponsor our Bohemian play."

"This is a great plan," Daegal remarked.

Everyone was giddy with delight and the prospect of a foolproof plan.

"Um, what is the Moulin Rouge?" Merlin asked, fearing that he might misunderstand if he didn't clarify it now.

Apparently, Moulin Rouge was a nightclub, a dancehall and a bordello. It was a kingdom of nighttime pleasures where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. Merlin thought that sounded a lot like a prostitution house but was wise enough to keep that to himself. Besides, it appeared to be legal and a higher class than a prostitution house.

"_Poor sod," Merlin had heard one time at a funeral of the granduncle of a friend. "He wasted his life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer."_

Ah. So that's why the name was familiar.

Merlin contemplated the notion of not bringing money at all, just in case he got foolish and spent all of it. He may be a bit naïve but at least he knew he was a bit naïve.

A few hours were used in fleshing out the details of their plan; how and when they would get in, where they would sit down, how they would contact Morgana and whatnot.

Merlin would bet that the discussion would have continued on for the rest of the night if his stomach hadn't growled like a caged lion. Four pairs of eyes turned to him. He flushed in embarrassment.

"Sorry. I haven't eaten anything since . . . since I've arrived in Paris, now that I think about it." It had been a long day and the excitement must have kept his hunger at bay.

"Oh," Gwen gasped, eyes wide with horror. "That's terrible."

"There's a grocery store a few blocks down the street," Daegal piped up. "Me and Tristan could go get us dinner and foodstuff."

"Thank you, Daegal." Gwen said the same time Tristan snarled a "Why do I have to go?"

They had a wonderful dinner, if Merlin might say so himself. Anecdotes were exchanged, dreams and ambitions were shared, and a few foodstuff were wasted for the sake of a bit of fun. Merlin learned that Gwen had actually a morbid sense of humor, Daegal and Gilli's pranks were not only amusing but also lessons in morality, and that Tristan, for all his grumpiness, was actually the sweetheart of the group. He also learned that although they were glad of Vivian's talent and willingness to work with a 'bunch of amateurs' (Vivian's words, apparently, even though Gwen and the others had already done several successful plays before her), there were many days in which they just wanted to punch her pearly white teeth in.

All in all, Merlin thought it wasn't at all bad for his first night in Paris.

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**I apologize for any grammatical errors or misspellings. I tried to beta it myself but I'm afraid I'm not really a competent beta.**

**So yeah . . . The style of writing is different from my other works; I prefer ones with plenty of dialogue myself but first chapters can't be help but be a bit wordy with descriptions.**

**Actually, I don't really know where I'm going with this so any suggestions for the plot would be extremely welcomed.**

**Constructive criticisms are very much welcomed too and are taken to dinner.**

**Have a happy day!**

**~Vividpast **


	2. The Duke's Promise

**WARNING/S:** Some mentioned character death and greedy men

**A/N: **Yo, sorry for the late and short update. I promise I'll be working hard on the next chapters!

**Chapter Summary/Excerpt: **Arthur loves his father, he truly did. But his father has shitty timing when it came to telling his son important things—like the fact that he has a long lost sibling.

**Disclaimer: **Characters belong to BBC Merlin. The plot and dialogue are from Moulin Rouge (2001). The only things here that are truly mine the creative liberties I've taken. Made for fun, not for profit.

Enjoy~

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**Chapter Two: The Duke's Promise**

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"You have a sister," his father had confessed on his deathbed.

Arthur loved his father, he truly did. But his father had shitty timing when it came to telling his son important things—like the fact that he had a long lost sibling.

With wide blue eyes, Arthur numbly repeated, "I have a sister."

"Yes." His father confirmed that he hadn't misheard. "Her mother was your nursemaid when you were but a babe."

"You slept with my nursemaid?" Arthur inquired, voice rising with the incredulousness of it all.

He shouldn't be surprised, not really. His mother had died before Arthur even opened his eyes. It wasn't considered cheating in a technical sense. However, Arthur thought that his father had loved his mother too much to welcome another in his life.

"It was a moment of weakness," his father admitted, guilt tinting his words. "And it was only one time. But I am sure the child was mine."

"I have a sister," Arthur repeated before rubbing his mouth in agitation. "And you didn't think to inform me of this years ago?" Somewhere out there, another Pendragon was running about. Inexplicably, Arthur felt loss at not having to have met and known them.

"I didn't want to tell you about her at all," his father said with a flippant gesture. "She is my shame." His father's eyes glinted with regret as he met Arthur's eyes. "Was my shame. Now that I am close to death—"

Arthur inhaled sharply, the reminder still giving his chest a painful throb.

"—I have time to think about it. Arthur, I don't want to leave this world without making amends with her."

"Where is she?" Arthur asked, already making arrangements in his head. "I'll have people fetch her and—"

"I know not," his father cut off. "I know nothing of her fate nor her mother's."

"You—what?"

His father cannot seem to meet Arthur's eyes. "As soon as I found out that Vivienne was with child, I sent her away without anything. No money, no support, not anything."

From a moment, shock overcame Arthur. His father had . . .? Then, unbidden red-hot anger rose in his chest. His father was a good man in some areas but it seemed dealing with personal affairs wasn't one of them. He opened his mouth, prepared to rage against the injustice his father had wrought but the older man beat him to it.

"Whatever you plan to say, know that I have probably said it to myself a thousand times." His father steadily met Arthur's gaze. Arthur could see the regret and shame in his expression. "There's not a day that goes by that I do not regret my actions."

Just like that, Arthur deflated. His father had not much time left. There was no use reflecting upon the past when there can be something done in the future.

"How do you know it's a girl, then? The child, I mean."

His father attempted to rummage through the cabinets beside the bed. Before he could lean in and possibly strain his body further, Arthur quickly turned to help him.

"Second drawer," his father instructed.

Arthur pulled out a small enveloped, the paper crinkled at the corners and yellowed with age. His father gestured for him to read it and he complied.

"I received that missive months later. Just that. No other letters followed," his father said. "I had hoped that Vivienne had found a new happy life."

_It's a girl. I named her Morgana. It means "from the sea", just like the color of her eyes. She's beautiful, Uther._

_Vivienne_

The corners of Arthur's lips quirked in fond amusement. Vivienne appeared to bear no ill will to his father even after what the man had done. Arthur placed the letter back into the envelope.

"You want to make amends to them." Arthur said after a moment of silence.

His father nodded. "I have rewritten my will. I give Morgana half of the estates."

"That's good," was Arthur's reply. It was proof that his father truly regretted deserting them; the man was always careful on where to put his money. "I'll make arrangements to find them."

"I had hoped to see them again before I go," his father gave Arthur a wan smile. "If ever you don't find them in time, tell them . . . I'm sorry. Tell them I ask for their forgiveness one last time."

Arthur swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He sat down beside his father, meeting the older man's gaze. He placed a comforting hand on his father's shoulder, hoping to convey his determination to see this through.

"I'll find them before . . . before. Don't worry, Father. You'll see them," he promised.

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He was forced to break his promise when his father died a few days after.

The Duke of Camelot was no more. Now, the title and the other half of the estate fell to Arthur.

"Hey, Duchess," a familiar irritating voice chirped.

Arthur opened his eyes just enough to give his bodyguard a death glare. "Leave me be, Gwaine," he snarled before bringing a glass of whiskey to his lips and finishing it in one gulp.

The alcohol burned its way through his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste. It was his fourth shot and he was feeling a bit lightheaded. He slouched further in his study chair without any care for his crumpled suit. A hand relinquished the glass from his grip to place it on the study desk.

"Now, now, don't be like that," Gwaine Noble tutted. "You have guests," he said, hands smoothing the disheveled suit that Arthur was wearing.

Arthur batted the hands away. "Make them go away. I'm in no mood to deal with bootlickers," Arthur replied with a wave. "My father just died." He blinked back the tears that burned his eyes at the thought. He wasn't going to cry, especially not in front of Gwaine.

"It's alright, Arthur," another familiar voice spoke up from the doorway. "It's just us."

Arthur whipped his head towards the voice's source. Two men in a suit entered the room, one with a lean figure and short curly dark hair and the other with a bulky form and semi-bald head.

"Lance! Perceival!" He attempted to get to his feet but his shaky legs threatened to buckle under him.

"Sit down, Arthur." Lancelot DuLac said with an exasperated sigh, coming closer to Arthur. The man's own bodyguard, Perceival Gademid, was only half a step behind him. "We received your missive and came as soon as we can."

"Yes, yes." Arthur gestured for the two of them to sit down on the cushioned ornate chairs on the other side of the desk. "You too, Gwaine."

"Are you finally going to explain all the detectives and private investigators you've been hiring?" Gwaine piped up as he unceremoniously sat down on the remaining chair.

"Yes," Arthur replied. "Whatever we discuss here shall not go out of this room, you hear me?"

Arthur had known these three men since they were children. In the eyes of his father's upper class and snooty friends, Lancelot, a fellow nobleman, was his best friend. However, Arthur was much closer to Gwaine just as Lancelot was partial to Perceival. The two bodyguards may not be of noble blood but Arthur considered them inside his close circle of friends. All in all, these three men were the three people he trusted the most.

Their expressions turned serious at Arthur's words.

"Is there a scandal involving your father?" Perceival asked in a whisper.

"Perhaps. It depends on how view it," Arthur replied. Then, he blurted out, "I have a sister."

Gwaine's brows lifted. "Arthur, I would have noticed if there was a female Pendragon scampering here."

"Half-sister," Arthur amended, casting an irritated glance at Gwaine. "Her name's Morgana, almost a year younger than me, I suppose. My father sent her mother away when she was still in the womb."

"Oh," was the resounding response.

Arthur ran a hand through his flaxen locks, mussing it up further. "Before my father died, he told me to find them and give Morgana half of the estates. I—"

"Half of the estates?" Lance repeated in surprise.

"Wow, that's—Wow," Gwaine rubbed his mouth, unable to say anything else.

"Do you think that's wise?" was Perceival's question. "She may not know anything about running the workings of the land."

Arhur rolled his eyes. "I'm not just going to leave her the lands to fend for herself. If she doesn't know anything, I'll teach her myself."

"Noble brother to the rescue, eh?" Gwaine smirked. Then, in a mock conspiratorial whisper, "Or are you just pretending to be nice so you can swoop in and take the estates yourself?"

"As you know, Gwaine, I don't need the money," Arthur replied with an unimpressed look. And it was true. He had started his own business a couple of years ago and it was blooming like flowers in spring. He never needed his father's money. "Besides, that plan would not only make me a horrible brother but also a horrible son."

"And we all know you aren't those," Lance said with a smile. Really, from anyone else, Arthur would have thought the man was being sarcastic. As it was, Lance was most probably being sincere.

Gwaine snorted. "No need to boost the Duchess' ego."

Arthur rolled his eyes and decided to continue. "Anyway, I've sent detective looking for her. All they managed to find out so far was that her mother, Vivienne Williams, had passed away almost 15 years ago. With no other relative to claim her, Morgana was lost in the system after that."

The men gave a moment of contemplative silence at the girl's fate.

Arthur rubbed his face in frustration. "The investigators are trying hard to find even a last name."

"Why do you want to keep her a secret?" Lance asked, curious. "I understand trying to protect your father's reputation—"

"It's not about that," Arthur cut off with a growl. Then, he blew out a sigh. "The other noblemen were anxious when they found out that I only inherited half of my father's lands. You should have seen their expressions." Arthur tried and failed to will away the greedy look on the men's eyes as they thought. "I think they already suspected that there's another child involved."

"You want to protect her," Perceival stated with proud smile.

"Well, as much as I can. My father's will shall be read in a few months' time and her name would be revealed. If I don't find her by then, the other noblemen could get to her," Arthur said. He turned to his friends. "I trust you won't tell anyone about this."

"You can be assured of that, my friend," Lanceleot replied, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"Of course, Duchess." Gwaine said, followed by Perceival's solemn nod of assent.

"Good," Arthur said with a relieved smile, feeling like a heavy weight had finally been lifted from his chest.

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Finally, after a couple of weeks of waiting, Arthur had a lead.

Agravaine Cornwall, owner of a bordello called Moulin Rouge in Paris, France.

Arthur tried not to blanch at the thought of his sister working at such a dubious establishment.

He sent a letter to the man, inquiring if a woman named Morgana was in his employ. He had received a positive response, quite creepy in its enthusiastic description of Morgana's features. After the exchange of a couple more missives, Arthur's hopes had reached new heights. Mr. Cornwall's narration of his courtesan's past were similar to Morgana's. It was highly likely that this Morgana was _the _Morgana.

In their last letters, Mr. Cornwall, in turn, asked if Arthur was interested in investing in the Moulin Rouge for its other upcoming business ventures. Although the implication was subtle, there was no doubt that the businessman would not let Arthur meet the courtesan if he didn't show some wealth.

Arthur could do nothing but roll his eyes and agree. Thankfully, he had the money to spare.

After two weeks of correspondence and a promise of a drawn contract upon Arthur's arrival, Mr. Cornwall had allowed him to visit.

Packing up that same day, Arthur prayed to the god he no longer believed in that he was on the right track.

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"It won't disappear the moment you tear your gaze away from it, you know?" Lance's amused voice filtered through his head.

Arthur looked up from the photo he had in his hand, broken out of his musings. The train jostled sharply for a moment and Arthur had to place a hand on the windowsill.

"Maybe Duchess here," Gwaine shot him a lecherous smirk, "is having inappropriate thoug—"

Arthur elbowed the man sharply in the ribs, making Gwaine double over and cough in pain. Perceival smothered a snicker at the other bodyguard's predicament. Thankfully, the four of them secured a private cubicle because Arthur would never let anyone else witness his less than gentlemanly manners.

His gaze drifted back to the photo that Mr. Cornwall had sent him. The woman in the picture, dressed in an indecently revealing glittering dress, had dark hair cascading down one shoulder and seemingly pale skin. The woman had his father's sharp nose and equally sharp cheekbones. Arthur couldn't be sure but she probably had blue eyes that matches his own.

All in all, her resemblance to a Pendragon was undeniable. Arthur was confident she was the one—she was Morgana Pendragon, his half-sister.

"Really, Arthur," Gwaine drawled once again, putting his hands behind his head in an arrogant manner. "One would think that you are considering some incestuous—"

"Finish that sentence and you'll be finding yourself looking for a new job," Arthur said in an overly saccharine tone. But he finally kept the photo inside his jacket pocket just to avoid any further teasing.

Gwaine merely laughed at his threat, the sod.

Arthur cocked an unamused brow at his bodyguard. "I was about to thank you lot for coming with me but I see now that I should have left you behind."

"Aww, don't be like that, Duchess." Gwaine gave the blond duke a friendly slap on the back. "You'll all be lost without me."

"Of course," Lancelot agreed with a tilt of his head. "Who else would almost get us arrested for flirting with the wrong woman?"

Arthur and Perceival guffawed at the truthfulness of the statement and the memories surrounding it.

"Oi!" Gwaine squawked indignantly. "How was I supposed to know she was already taken?"

"I think the fact that she had a big diamond around her ring finger is probably a warning to stay away," Perceival interjected.

And so, the whole ride to Paris was filled with pleasant laughter and unforgettable anecdotes of Arthur's friends.

He was truly looking forward at the prospect of meeting his sister. He could only hope the meeting would go well.

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**I tried to integrate Victorian values into their attitudes so they might be quite OOC but they'll get back to themselves, I promise.**

**Any suggestions for the plot are welcome!**

**Constructive criticisms are very much welcomed too and are taken to dinner. Kindly point out any glaring errors!**

**Have a happy day!**

**~Vividpast **


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